


Thrum

by Flightless_Forests



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Trials of Apollo - Rick Riordan
Genre: Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Music, Overwhelmed, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:41:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26385064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flightless_Forests/pseuds/Flightless_Forests
Summary: Too much, had been the rustle. A leak in the dam of an overwhelming week. Lester sits, and he hopes, and he hates.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 56





	Thrum

It took too long for Lester to fall asleep, now that this was.. Well, he didn’t want to say,”over.” Didn’t want to spare that a thought. Unspoken words had their consequences, he’d learned that by now. 

But it seemed to be slowing, the rush of too much, the flow of overstimulation he’d found himself drowning in. Not like the slow was really slowing: they’d still been fighting off enough to send him spiraling, clawing at his hands and face even after they’d been wiped free of the dust.   
The day was a blur, but now? Now they- _his friends, at least-_ had been able to settle. Relax.  
  
Lester picked at his face, his eyes shut tight. Dragged his thumbnail over each bump on his forehead, trying to catch his breath. He’d been up in a blur, eyes bloodshot and awake, painfully awake, reaching for his bow. Too many chances he’d taken,lost too many moments to noises he’d failed to react to quick enough. 

A false scare. He’d almost lost an arrow to the darkness surrounding their makeshift campground.   
His bow now lay discarded at his side, as he itched away, picking at things he’d already turned to scabs. His knees tucked in tight to his chest, his eyes stung with tears he wouldn’t let escape.  
  
It wasn’t something a _God_ should cry over. It was just the rustling of a bush. Just the wind. It howled, and it whistled, and it tore through those leaves. It wasn’t a beast. It wasn’t a man. It wasn’t Ze- 

It wasn’t _west wind,_ either. Southern. It shouldn’t have scared him, of all people. Shouldn’t have only woken him. Even the Arrow was asleep, at least he assumed. He heard nothing from his quiver. Not a thing as he’d drawn a neighboring one.   
Meg was asleep, next to him. Or was it across?   
He couldn’t tell. Everything was echoey in this clearing, and everything was louder in his mind. Her snoring and Notus’ whistled cries were the only noises of the night, flushing out the crickets and toads and cicadas. 

His hand travelled to his hair. He bowed his head low to his knees, a shaky breath loosening from the dam formed by his gritted teeth. 

His mouth was dry, horribly dry. It hurt to move his tongue. It hurt to breathe, his chest rising and falling in uneven strokes, him having to swallow after each ragged exhale.  
  
He bunched his hair up in his fist, pulling until it hurt to pull. When he dropped the mound, spare strands stayed tightened around his fingers. Lester lowered his hand, wrapping his arm around his knee, following the suit of its double.   
He tucked his head low to his knees, his forehead pushed agonizingly against them. The pain did not do much to take away from his stress. 

His arms went a tad more lax than they had been, his wrists now touching. He grazed his left against his right, finding the rubber hair band he’d taken off the road a while back.  
  
He tugged on it, then let go. It snapped against his wrist, and he winced. He’d barely done that in the time he’d had it. 

He liked the slight burn of wrapping it too tight around his fingers, liked how the rubber felt between his canine teeth, liked to trace the reddish dent it left on his wrist after a day of wearing it.  
As he tugged it back again, he let his hand slip from it, catching it around his middle finger. 

He liked tugging it taught and strumming it most of all. 

Music was therapeutic. Music didn’t leave that bittersweet taste in his mouth. You didn’t have to be good at it to make it. You didn’t need anything fancy, nor did you really need, well,  _ anything _ . Your own two pointer fingers could drum up a simple tune, your own voice could hum unheard lyrics. You didn’t need a voice like a God’s, though Lester did have that, you didn’t need to have previous success. 

It was easy to lose yourself in. And, hey, hey.

There was nothing wrong with a little escapism, now and then.

He pulled the band tight, as tight as it could go. It’d still be a low pitch, but that was okay. Not ideal, but did he really have ideal, at the moment? As he fought back hot tears, their pools acid against his eyes?   
No. Of course not. Anything he could feel the vibration of, that’d work. 

He began to pluck at the single strand, the back one too far for his left pointer to reach. The low noise was barely there against Meg and Notus, but he could feel it, a slight tickle on his fingers.   
For a while, he sat, immersing himself in this impromptu tune. He could hear what the backing would sound like, had he been back on Olympus. Had he had time to play this for real. Lyrics worked slower than a drumline, to him. You couldn’t just come up with lyrics without the backing to go with it. That led to uneven songs, with unrhyming choruses, and verses that slipped out, weren’t sung. 

He let these thoughts engulf him, as well. The critic in him tore him further away from what plagued, brewed beneath his skin. 

He hummed along to the noise he’d created. It was a watery, stilted noise, more a saddened whimper than anything else. But he could barely hear that. The golden canary in his mind sang sweeter than the mottled cricket it really was. 

Lester was enthralled in it. He needed to be, really, lest he notice that the tears had already let go of their hold, dripping down his face and onto his hoodie. The stress wasn’t gone, but the fear was melting away as he cried, plucked, hummed. He sounded more pitiful than before, but he didn’t take notice. 

His hummed whimpers turned to barely muffled sobs, his mind’s song turning more sorrowful. More longing. He wanted to be home. He wanted to go home.

But where was home? He’d been gone for so long, Olympus’ golden halls had all but fled his brain. His brother’s faces had melted together. His father’s voice wasn’t the same booming it had been. 

His mother’s touches, her face, her voice-

He stopped strumming. The band fell from his fingers, and onto the cold, woodland floor. He finally opened his eyes. 

He wasn’t home. He wasn’t performing. He wasn’t anywhere he knew. The fear was gone, but agony took its place. 

He hated these trials a lot. Hated the memory loss more. 

Lester looked over at Meg, curled in her sleeping bag, her back to him, he choked back a wail. He could’ve woken her at any moment as he had overreacted. He was so good at overreacting. 

He let the rubber band stay on the ground, pulling his hood back over his head. He’d let her have the blanket. She’d need the sleep more than him, anyways. 

He looked to his wrists as he fell back against the hard dirt, his hands balling back into fists. He tucked those close to his chest, sighing. Couldn’t he have waited to let his emotions overtake him? He didn’t.. 

He didn’t need to cry like this at the slightest inconvenience. He should never cry like this. He was Apollo, after all.

As Lester lay there, drifting off once more, the only thing he hated more than all he had faced, was Lester, himself.


End file.
